There came a time in my life, just about 10 years ago I believe, when I just got fed up with myself. I took an honest look in the mirror and I didn't like the person there. So I decided to change. I looked around at what everyone else was doing; if I wasn't going to be me anymore, who should I try to be like? I focused in on Mother Teresa (aim high, right?). Although she passed away while I was in high school, I don't know if anyone has yet to cast their shadow over her reputation as a humanitarian and a living saint.
Okay. So I sat on my mattress (it took getting married to finally start sleeping on a bed frame again) and tried to think where I could go and how I could be the next Mother Teresa. She had cared for lepers in Calcutta, breaking the social mores of a society that cherished its hierarchy and really looked down on touching diseased, poor, unworthy folks. Well then. I could, I don't know, go to Africa and care for people dying of AIDS? Except, um, I didn't know where exactly I would need to go, and I didn't know what qualifications I had or could get quickly to make myself useful. And I was engaged. I was pretty sure my fiancé wouldn't be excited about this change of plans (CORRECT!).
Okay. So I planned my wedding and continued working and sat with this tension about who I should become and who I was. A few months after I got married, I was hanging out with some friends. One of them told me he was going to a poor neighborhood in the area every Wednesday and helping some people serve dinner to the families who lived there. My husband and I were working different hours, meaning I came home four days a week at 5pm and sat around our apartment (reading, cleaning, napping) until he came home around 9pm. I thought about Mother Theresa. I thought about Africa. I thought, maybe I can't be her and do great things, but I can do this thing right now and maybe make a positive difference right now. The following Wednesday, I met up with my friend at the appointed time. And I found out that he had left out some details. Like that he went to this neighborhood with our church's youth group, and by showing up to go with them, the assumption was made that I wanted to help lead the students, not feed the neighborhood.
I kept going, even though my husband said "You went where?!" with a freaked out look on his face after the first night, even though I didn't want to be a youth group leader, even though serving dinner to strangers is kind of uncomfortable and I didn't really think I was making a difference. After the summer ended, the Wednesday nights continued. I was given a group of sixth grade girls to visit patients at the local hospital and organize stuff at Goodwill. But some nights we just stayed at the church and talked about God. Then it was my task to sit with the girls and generate discussions about whatever the youth pastor taught. I remember facing a line of 11 year old girls and drawing a complete blank, so I just started babbling about baptism. I figured out that I didn't need to stick to a script or ask the right questions, or even stay on topic. I just needed to get them talking. We got to know each other, and I was surprised to find myself kind of being a leader. The next summer, I went with the girls to camp, and I found myself in a super awkward conversation with a girl from another church who had some pretty serious questions about boys and sex and, while I hope I handled it well, my 11 year olds did not prepare me for that.
When the girls were in 7th grade, I had my first baby. I was still able to come on Wednesday nights (mostly), but I wasn't able to help chaperone trips and my priorities had changed a little. Still, I wanted to do something. So taking what I had learned so far, that I understood middle school girls and enjoyed spending time with them, I signed up to be a Big Sister. I was matched with a 10 year old girl who liked to play basketball and didn't live too far away from me. It was no Calcutta slum, but then again, Mother Teresa didn't have a baby at home. So I spent a year picking D up and trying to find thing to do together. She liked more active stuff, so we played basketball at the park and had a snowball fight after Christmas. She came to my house and we baked cookies and we went to Steak and Shake and shared a plate of fries. As our match year came to an end, I was about to give birth to my next baby, and she decided she didn't want to continue with the program. I was relieved, because, although I liked hanging out with her, it was hard to make separate time for this girl and take care of my kids at home. I found myself thinking that it would be easier if I could mentor a kid who lived with me instead. And that's how I became a foster parent.
The idea had been germinating when I happened to meet a lady who had adopted her three daughters through foster care. I was supposed to have a quick 10 minute meeting with her about a completely unrelated matter, but we ended up talking for close to two hours, as she described the process of getting licensed, told me the stories of how she'd gotten her daughters, and talked about life as a family. I went home that night and told my husband we had to do it. He wasn't so sure (but at least we didn't have to go to Africa...). A few months later, our church arranged a weekend service trip to a local children's home for their annual fundraising carnival. I used a little coercion to get my husband to come with me and we left the kids with my parents. We drove out on Friday night, my husband gritting his teeth and not saying much, and we drove home Sunday overwhelmed with the desire to get licensed. We just had to do it. A year later, we were approved and our next son was born to another woman. We brought him home and fell in love.
In the last year or so, I've been given some opportunities to speak and teach. It's not something I've sought out or felt prepared to do, but it continues to happen. I'm still not caring for the dying in a developing country on the other side of the world, but I look back at the past decade and I see the steps I've taken to distance myself from that selfish, miserable 22 year old. Have I made a difference? Am I getting close to Mother Teresa status? I don't know. I don't know how many people remember me after our time together ends. I don't know whether I've influenced people to live better lives or care for the poor, but I know that I've changed. I know that these experiences have transformed me.
And let me tell you something I learned recently about Mother Theresa: it took her decades to become the woman serving the lepers in India. She left home at 18 to begin her life as a nun, and studied and trained and spent the next two decades teaching in a school not far from where her better-known ministry would launch. She was almost 40 when she finally left the safety of her convent and began working directly with the poor and sick. She spent the last 37 years of her life building her Sisters of Charity from one person (herself) to a network of more than 5,000 nuns and priests operating more than 600 facilities for the "poorest of the poor". I find this very encouraging. There's still time. I'm not Mother Teresa...but maybe someday I'll be known as Mother Rachel.
If we want to reap a harvest, first we have to plant. If we want to be known for something, then we have to get off our butts and do it. If we want the world to change, then we have to follow Ghandi's advice and be the change. My heart breaks for orphans and vulnerable children. My hands are itching to hold them close and keep them safe. And my mouth can't stop telling people to join me.
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